the things about ghosts
by locketdead
Summary: Sherlock comes for a visit and insists he's a ghost. John doesn't believe in ghosts.


John spends his days counting down the minute until Sherlock walks back into those front doors; he waits, sits on his chair and reads the morning news as always. He watches the telly with Mrs Hudson and they avoid talking about the too-tall, too-smart man. His presence is dearly missed, although John doesn't really want to admit he's lost him. Not yet.

People have tried to offer him comfort, his visits with his therapist becoming slightly more irritating as she keeps insisting they talk about him. John wants to tell the whole world Sherlock Holmes isn't dead, couldn't die for the life of him. That isn't Sherlock, he'd smart his way out of it. He always had, and for him, an honest man, to tell John he's been lying—it's impossible. Absolutely unthinkable and only Sherlock would try to spare him sentiment. But if he looks at it that way, he'll admit Sherlock died, and it'd be ironic—since when did Sherlock Holmes care for other people? If he thinks about it, it'll only get weirder, so John had come to an agreement with himself not to think about it.

He goes to see his therapist on Wednesdays, not for any reason really. She doesn't comfort him nor does she help him understand anything, she just is. And he listens to her, her words seem distant and totally useless, but it's somehow real. And nothing in his life feels real at the moment. He needs this, needs this bit of reality, no matter how the rage bubbles under his taut skin as she rambles on about post-traumatic such and such of witnessing suicide firsthand, _especially of a loved one_.

This sparks a throng of questions; did he love Sherlock? Was Sherlock ever his friend, more than friend, maybe even partner? Was there this relationship, this connection, between them, solidified and believable?

John works himself into a headache and stops thinking, realizing he's still in therapy and that his therapist is shaking him awake. He wasn't asleep though—just lost in thoughts.

"Should I prescribe you sleeping pills?" John feels exhaustion kick in, and nods limply. He feels pathetic for being so hung up on Sherlock's death; saying it or even thinking about it makes him jittery with some sort of fear and excitement and desperation. It makes him almost angry.

Her heels click off as she heads into her office and John lets his head fall back onto the cushion, a soft thud echoing as the door shuts and his head falls against the chair. Before he knows it, he's back in the flat and Mrs Hudson is vacuuming downstairs; he hears the rustling of cars and hears a soft murmur of the telly from the people next door. John looks around the dust covered shelves and the books that haven't been touched. Well, what's left of the books, anyway. Most of it had been packed away, but no one has bothered to touch the books on the shelves. He's almost tempted to read a few, but most of them aren't in English and the ones that are, aren't really his favorite genre or any genre, actually. Instead, he walks to the kitchen and opens the fridge, expecting a cold beer and a severed head or a bag of bloody fingers or _something_ dismembered. All he sees are water bottles and a watermelon, both of which belonged to Mrs Hudson. John sighs and thinks about going to a pub, thinks about dating again and something churns in his stomach.

He figures sleep is the best, but that's all he's been doing for the past few mornings. It just seems something is nagging at him at night, when he tries to sleep, and he ends up riffling through the blog again. There are spews of comments, most of which are negative following the thread, but John looks past them. He ignores all the sneers; they never knew Sherlock, they didn't know how much of a genius he actually was. They're all just jealous.

John stops scrolling for a moment and wonders why he's backing Sherlock up when the man had confessed to being a fraud himself. The word tears his heart open and rips all the heartstrings out. It just doesn't feel right. He gulps and swallows down the cold water. He shivers and feels a pair of eyes staring at him. He quickly turns around and sees Sherlock's skull. He's almost sure Mrs Hudson had packed it away—the poor lady couldn't help but tear up every time she looked at it. So why was it here? John blinks and turns his eyes back to the screen. He starts scrolling again and this time, he swears he hears someone breathing.

John whips his head around and the skull is gone—he rubs his eyes, almost desperately, and there were no traces of a skull ever being there. He looks at his wristwatch and thinks to himself it's time to go to sleep. He takes one of the pills his therapist prescribed to him and changes into his pajamas before closing the laptop and turning off the only lamp that lit the place. He ventures to his room and falls asleep almost as soon as he closes his eyes.

Bright light pour into the room and John is almost sure he's never opened the blinds. Must be Mrs Hudson; she's always been so adamant about knowing what time of day it was and she never remembered where she places her own clocks.

He hears a heavy breathing, feels hot puffs of air hitting his cheeks and suddenly he's sitting up, head-butting someone else.

"What a great way to greet someone who just came back from the dead." John knows this voice, knows it too well, knows that this is the closest this person had been to sarcasm since he's started breathing and he probably didn't even know he what sarcasm is or the fact that he's doing it right now. However, he doesn't really comprehend that fact so he screams. "Glad to know you missed me." There is about 180 cm and 79 kg of Sherlock in his bed and his bed is _quite_ small.

He doesn't stop screaming though and Sherlock clasps a hand over his mouth. "Look, it was great spending the night with you and all, but I'm just here to say your life is potentially in danger so stay inside and don't wander. If anyone asks, I was a ghost revisiting vengeance for that one time you spilt tomato sauce on my shoes—on purpose. Yes, I knew that was you. Now hush, there is no time for Mrs Hudson and her questions right now. I have to leave before they find me. Shush, stop drooling in my hands, that's disgusting. I will give you ten seconds to say what you want to say and then I have to leave." There has never been a moment where Sherlock had been more Sherlock than he's ever been, other than this and John wants to faint and punch Sherlock and kiss him all at once. Forget the kissing part though, that was an accidental slip, nothing more.

Sherlock releases his hands from John's mouth and John gaps for air. "Seven seconds," Sherlock reminds.

"You are an idiot! You stayed the entire night?"

"I am a genius, actually, and no, I was here at three, which technically, isn't night at all." John's shoulders fall out of tension and he heaves a sigh of relief. "You drool and snore—that is very unsightly. Also, I miss my skull. Why did Mrs Hudson pack him away? That was very unkind of her."

"Aren't you supposed to leave now?"

"No, not really, I just needed you not to scream." Sherlock smiles, the way only he can, with his face scrunched and his eyes pulling back, crescent shaped. "But your life is potentially in danger, that part was serious."

John tries to untangle himself from the sheets but Sherlock stops him. "Are you really alive?"

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

"No," John whispers unsurely.

"Then yes, I am a ghost visiting for vengeance; I really liked that pair." There was something resembling a pout, but before John could say anything about Sherlock's newfound use of sarcasm, Sherlock is already up and about.

"Ciao," Sherlock waves and runs out of the room, lanky arms flying as he tries not to trip over the carpet. It was then John realized he'd been rolled up into a burrito and is stuck, and he'd had to call Mrs Hudson for help. When she does hear him, which takes about half an hour, she rolls him out and he finds numbers written on the inside of his arm and he smiles a bit. Although very confused, he feels giddy again, knowing that Sherlock is still up and about somewhere, that he's not a fraud, and that he's still with John—it makes him feel comforted, safer and warmer than any of his therapist's words of comfort.

_Loved ones_, he hears her words ring in his head and for once, he doesn't care. He gets up, heeding Sherlock's warning and staying in. He watches some telly with Mrs Hudson and she fusses about him having dinner with her; she's been trying for weeks, but it's today he's finally giving in. She makes too much food but he eats most of it. She wraps the leftover roast in plastic wrap and gives it to John to take upstairs.

Before he goes all the way up, she calls out to him. "John—was that Sherlock I saw running down the stairs?"

"No?" His tone was a dead giveaway, and even Mrs Hudson knew better.

"Alright then, tell that idiot he still owes me his last month's rent. Don't think playing dead will get him out of it." She turns and heads back to his room and John is really thankful she puts up with him.

Really—he's never felt more at ease than today. When he stumbles into the room that night, he finds Sherlock tucked away underneath his blankets, wrapped tightly into a cocoon. "You have your own bed, you know." Sherlock doesn't budge, but John knows he's not asleep.

"Too close to Mrs Hudson." He mutters, sleep laced into his voice.

"She says you owe her the rent."

"I'm dead—I don't owe anyone rent." After that, he doesn't speak again even though he's clearly awake. John kicks him aside gently and he rolls over, flopping on his belly. John only sighs and tugs on the blankets until Sherlock finally lets John have some.

"I don't believe in ghosts." John mutters.

"Then I'm not here—I am a ghost, and if you don't believe in them, I'm nothing. Go to sleep, John."

"I do believe Sherlock Holmes is an idiot."

"How so?" Sherlock rolls over and his breath is fanning against John's forehead.

"Ghosts don't ask questions." John teases.

"Ghosts also don't know how to tickle someone into telling them they're superior." Sherlock commences to tickle John. "But then again, I am just a ghost."


End file.
